


i've got Friday on my mind.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:24:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Friday afternoon, for the past five months, Stiles has shown up at Derek's loft.  </p><p>Canon divergence, takes place between junior and senior year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've got Friday on my mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a quick little drabble about Sterek cuddles and it turned into this ball of fluff with a tinge of smut. I hope you lovely readers enjoy! 
> 
> Title comes from the song [Friday on My Mind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSowZcvoqr4) by The Easybeats.

Every Friday afternoon, for the past five months, Stiles has shown up at Derek's loft. It had started the day Derek and Peter returned from a trip to South America to see Cora (there'd been a store-bought cake and Stiles had apparently aired his loft out and Derek did _not_ ask how he'd gotten inside) and after that, it just kept happening. It's a low-expectations kind of time and it's one of the few things Derek can rely upon in his life because not once has Stiles skipped out on him. It's become a routine, regular like clockwork and if you'd told Derek a year ago that Stiles Stilinski was a creature capable of sticking to a stringent routine, he would have rolled his eyes and scoffed. 

But it was funny, how only a few months could change your perspective and Derek would be lying if he said he _didn't_ look forward to the hours he gets to spend with Stiles. They always have the time to themselves; the rest of the pack seemed to have caught on pretty quickly and Peter always leaves before Stiles shows up. Derek has no idea where he goes but truthfully, unless he's plotting to murder them all or actually doing something useful, Derek doesn't really care what he does. He's just glad that he leaves because then, he has two hours alone with Stiles where they can do whatever they want. 

Their activities of choice have changed, slowly but surely. At first, they'd just watch something on Derek's dinky little television. Sometimes, they'd talk (about movies or books or history, so long as it wasn't their histories) or they'd sit at opposite ends of the couch and read. Once school was back in, Stiles started bringing his homework over and he'd work on it with his feet plunked in Derek's lap and it was only a matter of time before they spent an increasing amount of time making out, kissing until Stiles' lips were swollen and his neck was flushed red with stubble burn that Derek definitely didn't feel guilty about. Regardless of what they do though, it's a comfortable time, a (mostly) worry-free time where they can kind of just pretend that they live in a town that isn't full of werewolves and the occasional kanima and it's (almost always) the best day of Derek's week. 

The last Friday of November is no exception. At exactly 3:07, Stiles yanks open the door to the loft, having probably broken the speed limit on the drive over from the high school. Stiles always smells sweet, like sugar and mint toothpaste and cheap aftershave and on this particular Friday, he's wearing one of the ridiculously bright shirts he'd fallen in love with in his junior year. Today, it's the dark red and navy blue one and Derek has to admit that, if he _had_ to pick a favorite of the batch, it would be that one. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, carelessly dropping his backpack with a _thud_ beside the door, which indicates he has no intentions of doing any homework he might have. He kicks his shoes off beside his bag and quickly crosses the room to where Derek is sitting on the couch with a book in his hands. He moves to set it aside because it looks like Stiles is about to pounce on him and he doesn't really-

Oh. Well, that's different. Rather than clambering onto his lap, Stiles ungracefully falls onto the couch, feet propped up onto the armrest, his head squarely in Derek's lap. 

“Hi,” Derek belatedly responds, watching as Stiles wriggles around until his head is cushioned against Derek's thigh. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhm. I'm fine,” Stiles murmurs, breaking into a massive yawn that Derek should _not_ find even remotely endearing. “I'm tired though.” 

“You _do_ know that I have a bed, right?”

“I'm very aware of that fact,” Stiles says, rubbing his face against Derek's leg like a particularly affectionate cat. His next words are rather muffled as he turns his head and presses his face into Derek's hip but Derek is pretty certain that he hears Stiles say _I like it here_ and since Stiles seems pretty comfy, he doesn't bother pressing the issue any further. After a few minutes of wiggling around and twitching, his limbs still and his breathing slows until it's deep and calm. His heart is still beating faster than the average person's but that never changes; it's just one of the dozens upon dozens of Stiles' idiosyncrasies that Derek has already cataloged in his mind. 

The tiny television is playing some documentary at low volume and his book is within reach but much as Derek finds both vikings and Steinbeck to be fascinating, Stiles wins over both any day. His hands are drawn up towards his chest; one of them has the hem of Derek's olive-green henley in a death grip, while the other has two fingers wrapped around one of his belt loops. It looks remarkably uncomfortable and Derek is sure that Stiles' arms are going to be extremely stiff when he wakes up but that knowledge still isn't enough to make him shake Stiles awake. One of Stiles' dark eyelashes has fallen onto his cheekbone and Derek brushes it away with his thumbnail, lingering over each of the birthmarks that he encounters in his path. 

He'd counted those, only two Fridays ago. Stiles has forty-six birthmarks from the crown of his head to his ankles and Derek had kissed every single one of them and by the time he'd reached the last, Stiles had been flushed from head to toe and had been threatening all sorts of things if Derek didn't _get up here and kiss me, goddammit_. Thankfully, none of them had come to pass because once Derek finally relented and made his way back up to Stiles' mouth, Stiles was more occupied with other things. 

He drags his thumb down further and remembers a time when Stiles' face had been rounder, when he'd been sixteen and spastic and Derek had pretty well _hated_ him. He'd hated how reckless and impatient he was, how he never listened, how he'd especially never listened to Derek. Sure, that impudence hadn't completely disappeared but now it was more channeled, more focused and somewhere along the line, Stiles had started listening to him and Derek had started listening in return. 

He slowly scrapes his nail along the collar of Stiles' shirt, stopping where his neck meets his shoulder. He settles his hand against the long column of his throat, can feel the steady thrumming of his heart against his palm and he picks his book up with his other hand, awkwardly cradling it between his fingers. By the time Stiles starts to stir in his lap, smacking his lips and shifting his feet, Derek has gotten through nearly forty pages of the novel. As soon as Stiles open his eyes, he marks his place and drops it onto the floor beside the couch as a preemptive measure; anything he leaves on the couch while Stiles is around has a tendency to get knocked off anyways. 

“Nngh,” Stiles mutters, sitting up and wiping at his face. There's a damp spot on the hem of Derek's shirt from Stiles' mouth but he disregards it. Considering that Stiles had once seen him throw up viscous black blood (and hadn't run), there's no way that Derek can be bothered by a little bit of drool. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

“Yeah, actually. Better than I have in awhile,” Stiles responds, stretching his neck back and forth until it cracks. “You could have moved me, you know, when I started drooling on your clothes.”

“Didn't want to wake you up.” Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Stiles yawns again and arches his back, groaning happily once it cracks like his neck. 

“I should head back home soon,” he says, running a hand through his hair and turning his gaze towards Derek. “Lots of homework to do.” Yet even as he says the last word, he's climbing into Derek's lap, knees pressing into the cushions on other side of him.

“You could just do it here,” Derek replies, sighing as Stiles' long fingers card through the hair on the back of his head. “I won't distract you.”

“I know.” The grip on the back of his head tightens, changing from carding to gentle, yet firm, pulling. Derek goes with it, tilting his head back until it is resting against the couch. Stiles leans down and noses his way down Derek's throat, warm breath brushing against his skin. Derek realizes that his hands are still sitting unoccupied at his sides so he quickly gives them something to do by settling them low on Stiles' waist. He uses his thumbs to ruck his shirts up so that he can run his fingers along Stiles' hipbones and in response, Stiles clamps his viciously talented mouth onto the bottom of Derek's throat and sucks, fingers still pressing into the back of Derek's head. 

Any bruises that he makes fade in seconds but even after they have vanished from his skin, Derek still has the memories of them to recall at any moment he wishes. When Stiles moves his mouth, it's only by an inch and then he's pressing down again, decorating the jut of Derek's clavicle with another short-lived explosion of red and purple. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, barely biting back a gasp after Stiles sucks another bruise into the hollow at the base of his throat. 

“Don't know. Making a collar, I guess,” he murmurs and Derek rolls his eyes even as he moans quietly. 

“Stiles, I'm not a dog.” 

“I know,” he says simply, switching from bites to hard kisses as he traverses his way back up Derek's throat. “You're my wolf.” It isn't the first time Stiles has rendered him speechless and Derek has a feeling it won't be the last by a long shot. He doesn't even really know how to respond; the first thing to come to mind is _and you're my human_ but he doesn't say that because a) it would sound ridiculous and b) it doesn't even come close to beginning to describe or explain what Stiles is to him. So instead of fumbling with lackluster words, he uses his hands, sliding them down between the coarse denim of Stiles' jeans and the soft linen of his boxers and squeezing. Stiles makes a broken-off moan against his ear and then he's lunging for Derek's mouth again. His tongue glides against Derek's bottom lip, presses against his teeth and Derek wonders if it would be possible to kiss Stiles with his fangs out. He wonders if Stiles would let him try, wonders why the thought is even popping into his head. He files it away in the back of his mind for another day and returns the kiss the best he can. 

A few moments later, Stiles' plaid shirt ends up on top of the television. His t-shirt quickly follows and Derek's henley lands on his book and every time they move against each other, there's the pleasure/pain of skin pressing and dragging against skin. Stiles' lips are glistening and there's a blotchy, strawberry red bruise flourishing on his shoulder. His hair is unruly and when he pulls back to suck in a breath, he's smiling from ear to ear, an honest, genuine smile that Derek had seen maybe four times before their Friday routine had started. It still never fails to surprise him, never fails to make his heart kind of skip a beat and before he can reign himself in, he blurts out _I love you._

For a brief second, the room seems too small, like it's closing in and trying to suffocate him but then Stiles murmurs _love you too_ against his mouth and Derek can feel a smile of his own spreading across his face in the precious seconds before Stiles is leaning in and kissing him again, kissing him until he's panting. 

There isn't a lot of conversation after that, but there is a lot of noise. After a few moments of awkward fumbling and near-collisions between Derek's jaw and Stiles' elbow, Stiles ends up underneath him, hands tearing at his own belt before Derek can even begin to think about moving his fingers. When his brain and his body start working at the same speed, he helps Stiles out of his jeans and his boxers (also plaid, coincidentally) and slides down the couch until he's awkwardly hunched over his own legs, toes digging into the cushions. But he's more than happy to deal with the uncomfortable position because it means that he can hitch Stiles' legs over his shoulders. It means that he can drag his mouth over the pale skin of his inner thigh, means that he can follow the dots of his birthmarks until he's running his tongue over Stiles' entrance and, just like the first time Derek rimmed him, Stiles curses like a sailor, throwing out _oh my god_ and _fuck_ and _Derek_ like they're the only words he remembers how to say. 

When he's slick with saliva and his thighs are red from Derek's stubble, he slides two fingers inside Stiles and curls them upwards. He curls and mouths at his hips and his cock until Stiles is coming with his heels pressing into the triskele on Derek's back, his fingers tugging almost painfully at Derek's hair. Although his first instinct is to lick the cum off of Stiles' flat stomach, he manages to resist in favor of cleaning it off with his henley. As soon as Stiles regains his breath, he surges upwards like a wave and knocks Derek flat on his back, nimble fingers yanking his belt open in a matter of seconds. Derek only manages to tug his jeans down as far as his knees before Stiles is sitting astride his thighs, still completely naked. He licks his palm and wraps it around Derek's cock, squeezing before he starts moving it at a fairly quick pace. Derek kind of loses track of time after that but considering that Stiles is nipping at his neck and whispering _love you_ against his lips, it doesn't take long before he's spurting against his own stomach and dripping against Stiles' fingers. After a moment of staring, Stiles slowly licks his hand clean, eyes locked with Derek's while he does it and fuck, Derek has _no_ idea how he isn't dreaming right now. 

Stiles leaves shortly after he gets dressed and even though he has a glass of juice before he heads out, Derek can still taste himself in Stiles' mouth when he kisses him. Approximately an hour later, Peter comes back from wherever he was skulking and before he's taken all of two steps into the loft, he sighs loudly, glaring at where Derek is sitting on the couch in a new shirt, his dirty henley having been deposited in the laundry. 

“Again, Derek? It _reeks_ of hormones in here.”

“There's a vacancy two floors down,” he says without looking up from his novel because he's had the best Friday of his life and the only thing that could possibly ruin it would be the appearance of some malevolent creature in the streets. Thankfully, that doesn't happen until Monday. An extremely persistent omega breezes into town but after a number of claw marks from Derek and an alpha-roar courtesy of Scott, he finally leaves on Wednesday, which also happens to be the day that Peter moves into the vacant apartment two floors below. On Friday, Stiles shows up like always but this time, the customary two hours they spend together turn into four, and then six, and then Derek's waking up to the sun shining in his eyes and to Stiles wound around him like a snake, naked underneath Derek's sheets.

It may technically be Saturday when he wakes up, but Derek still considers it to be the best Friday of his life.


End file.
